Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"You trust me for the voice bio?"

"Sure," she said. "But I know you wouldn't hit the street without at least that much cash. The kind of bail they'd put on you, you have to be carrying a much bigger piece just for case money."

"You want it here?" I asked, not denying her diagnosis.

"Tell one of your people to throw it in the car," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the Audi.

"Nobody's getting that close to your beast," I told her. I knew how Wolfe parked her car: passenger window wide open, the Rottweiler in the front seat, praying for invaders. He was a legendary killer—rumor is he even has a Judas cat who lures other felines into the yard so the Rottie can munch on them.

"Bruiser doesn't eat money," she said, giving me another smile. "I said throw it in—it'll be okay."

I held up two fingers, like I was testing the wind. "Consider it done," I told her.

Wolfe slit a pack of cigarettes with a long red fingernail, tapped one out. I fired up a wooden match, cupped the flame for her. She leaned against me, slightly, just barely making contact. I could smell her lemon–jasmine perfume. Sweet and sharp, like she was.

"He's a lawyer," she said softly. "Yale. Class of 1975. Full scholarship. Law review, top five per cent. He did matrimonial, then entertainment."

I nodded. Like I was listening, not like I'd heard it before. Wondering how she had all that in her memory bank—was she working Kite for someone else?

"He gave that up, years ago," she continued. "Now he's a free–lance hit man on child abuse cases. Specializes in blowing up testimony. He's damn good at it. Smart, thorough. Plugged in too. He gets really good information. Mostly pays for it, but he trades too."

"Bent?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'd like to think so, the side of the street he works and all. He plays hard. Even dirty, sometimes. I don't know where he gets some of his stuff, but I never heard of him manufacturing evidence."

"He's a science man?"

" Soft science. Psychology, not DNA or fingerprints. And pseudo–science too. Garbage like the 'False Memory syndrome.' He stays in the shadowland. The kind of cases where you never really know the truth, understand?"

"He never got burned?"

"Not badly. He doesn't testify himself. I know of at least three different cases where there would have been a finding if it hadn't been for him."

"A 'finding'? You mean a conviction?"

"No. In Family Court, in a child abuse case, they call it a 'finding' if they decide the abuse really went down. He works the civil side too. You know, lawsuits—"

"Yeah," I interrupted. "But if he doesn't testify…"

"One time, he found out the testifying therapist was in the middle of her own case. Trying to bar her ex–husband from visits, claimed he had molested their daughter."

"So? That doesn't mean—"

"He found out she'd done a couple of dozen evaluations. And she always concluded the child was molested. Every time. And she always said certain things were done to the child. Every time."

"She made it up?"

"Or she was so spooked she kept seeing ghosts, projecting her own kid's life on the ones she interviewed. No way to know. But when the jury heard she never interviewed a kid who wasn't abused, not even once…that was the ball game. Another time, he found out that the therapist had been abused herself when she was a kid."

"That's not so amazing, right? A lot of people go into the business because they—"

"Sure," Wolfe said, holding my eyes. "But this particular therapist, she'd never said a word until she was all grown. In her thirties. And when she came out with it, nobody believed her. So the way the jury got to hear it, the therapist was obsessed with believing whatever a child had to say, see?"

"One of those 'kids never lie' people, huh?"

"You got it. And that was the ball game right there."

"The information he had, it was righteous?"

"Absolutely. But that doesn't mean he always shows you the whole deck."

"So if he had information that would hurt the defense, he'd sit on it?"

"I don't know. He says not."

"You talked to him?"

"Once. Years ago. He was trying to get me to drop a case. He came to the office. We talked. He's got a real true–believer rap. Says it's all a witch hunt. Kind of like the lawyers who say every time a black man's accused of a crime, it's racism. I couldn't tell if he bought his own speech or not—he doesn't give a lot away on his face."

"What happened with your case?" I asked her.

"It was a day care center. Molestation. We got a conviction. Reversed on appeal—the Appellate Division said the initial questioning was too suggestive."

"Your office?"

"No," Wolfe bristled. "The first caseworker on the scene. And the therapist they referred the kids to."

"You buy it?"

"The questioning could have been cleaner," Wolfe admitted. "But there was a ton of other evidence. It's like the AD was looking for an excuse."

"There's a lot of that going around," I said.

"Yeah," she said dryly. "Anyway, this Kite's a strange bird all right. He said to me—actually, he swore to me—that he's just after the truth. That if he ever found a real stand–up case, he'd go to the mat with it. For the kid, not the defendant."

"And you've heard that before…"

"I have. Lots of times. But with this guy, I wouldn't swear to it. Either way."

"Thanks."

"You want the documents?"

"Yeah. Whatever you have. And maybe the watch, too."

"Are you in something?" she asked quietly.

"I might be. I don't know. But if I go down the tunnel, I'd like some light."

"Chiara—you talked to her before—she lives around here. Goes for a run every afternoon around five. She'll have the documents with her tomorrow, okay?"

"The blonde girl with the pit bull?"

"That's an AmStaff," Wolfe said, smiling.

"Sure," I told her. "Whatever you say."

"Give her the money," Wolfe said by way of goodbye. She turned and walked away. Suddenly she pivoted, stepped back toward me. I walked up to meet her. She stood very close, voice low, hardly moving her lips. "He's got a lot of friends," she said. "If something happened to him, there'd be a lot of people looking."

"He got a lot of enemies?" I asked her innocently.

"Those too," she said.

"Anything happening?" I asked Mama from the pay phone on the fringe of the park.

"Woman call. Say you call Kite tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Burke…"

"What?"

"Woman very angry."

"Why? What did she say?"

"Say nothing. What I tell you, that's all."

"So?"

" Under her voice. Very angry."

"At me?"

"I don't know. But very angry. Maybe you—"

"I'm always careful, Mama," I told her.

When someone at Kite's social level says "morning," they mean: any time past nine. Me, I was raised different. You knew it was morning by the PA system blaring in the corridor. That was prison. Before that, it was the juvenile institution, with the boss–man sticking his ugly head into the dorm room and screaming at you. Most of the time, in the juvie joints, I was awake anyway—hard to sleep when it could cost you so much to close your eyes or turn your back.

I never heard an alarm clock when I was a kid, not even in the freakish foster home they sentenced me to that first time. They woke me up there with a kick or a slap. Once with a pot of scalding water. I told the social worker it had been an accident—told her I tripped right near the stove. She didn't believe me. I didn't want her to believe me. But she acted like she did, and nothing ever happened.

If it hadn't been for the fire, they would have left me in that place.